Rules Of Civility - Rules of Civility Part 4
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Rules of Civility Part 4

-How's it coming?

-I'm three misdirections and a whopper behind.

-What's the name of that bank where Tinker works?

-I don't know. Why?

-We don't have a plan for tomorrow night.

-He's taking us to some highbrow place, somewhere uptown. He's picking us up sometime around eight.

-Zowie. Someplace, somewhere, sometime. How'd you get all that?

I paused.

How did I get all that?

It was one hell of a question.

On the corner of Broadway and Exchange Place across the street from Trinity Church there was a little diner with a soda pop clock on the wall and a hasher named Max who even cooked his oatmeal on the griddle. Polar in winter, oppressive in July and five blocks out of my way, it was one of my favorite spots in town-because I could always get the crooked little booth-for-two by the window.

Sitting in that seat, in the span of a sandwich you could pay witness to the pilgrimage of New York's devoted. Hailing from every corner of Europe, donned in every shade of gray, they turned their backs on the Statue of Liberty and marched instinctively up Broadway, leaning with pluck into a cautionary wind, gripping identical hats to identical haircuts, happy to count themselves among the indistinguishable. With over a millennia of heritage behind them, each with their own glimpse of empire and some pinnacle of human expression (a Sistine Chapel or Gotterdammerung), now they were satisfied to express their individuality through which Rogers they preferred at the Saturday matinee: Ginger or Roy or Buck. America may be the land of opportunity, but in New York it's the shot at conformity that pulls them through the door.

Or so I was thinking, when a man without a hat emerged from the crowd and rapped on the glass.

Trip of a heartbeat, it was Tinker Grey.

The tips of his ears were as red as an elf's and he was sporting a grin like he'd caught me in the act. Behind the glass, he began talking enthusiastically-but inaudibly. I waved him in.

-So, is this it? he asked as he slid into the booth.

-Is this what?

-Is this where you go when you want to be alone!

-Oh, I laughed. Not exactly.

He snapped his fingers in mock disappointment. Then, announcing he was famished, he looked around the place with groundless appreciation. He picked up the menu and reviewed it for all of four seconds. He was in the irrepressible good humor of one who's found a hundred-dollar bill on the ground and has yet to tell a soul.

When the waitress appeared I ordered a BLT; Tinker leapt straight into uncharted territory, ordering Max's eponymous sandwich which the menu defined as unparalleled, world famous and legendary. When Tinker asked if I'd ever had it, I told him I'd always found the description a little too long on adjectives and a little too short on specifics.

-So, do you work nearby? he asked, when the waitress retreated.

-Just a short walk.

-Didn't Eve say it was a law firm?

-That's right. It's an old Wall Street practice.

-Do you like it?

-It's a little stodgy, but I suppose that's predictable.

Tinker smiled.

-You're a little long on adjectives and short on specifics yourself.

-Emily Post says that talking about oneself isn't very polite.

-I'm sure Miss Post is perfectly correct, but that doesn't seem to stop the rest of us.

Fortune favoring the bold, Max's special sandwich turned out to be a grilled cheese stuffed with corn beef and coleslaw. Within ten minutes it was gone and a slice of cheesecake had been plopped down in its place.

-What a great spot! Tinker said for the fifth time.

-So what's it like being a banker? I asked as he attacked his dessert.

For starters, he confided, you could barely call it banking. He was really more of a broker. The bank served a group of wealthy families with large stakes in private companies controlling everything from steel plants to silver mines, and when they were seeking liquidity, his role was to help them find an appropriate buyer, discreetly.

-I'd be happy to buy any silver mine you've got, I said, taking out a cigarette.

-Next time, you'll be my first call.

Tinker reached across the table to give me a light and then set his lighter down on the table beside his plate. Exhaling, I pointed to it with my cigarette.

-So what's the story there?

-Oh, he said, sounding a little self-conscious. You mean the inscription?

He picked up the lighter and studied it for a moment.

-I bought it when I got my first big paycheck. You know, as sort of a gift to myself. A solid gold lighter engraved with my initials!

He shook his head with a wistful smile.

-When my brother saw it, he gave me hell. He didn't like that it was gold or that it was monogrammed. But what really ticked him off was my job. We'd get together for a beer in the Village and he'd rail against bankers and Wall Street and jab me with my plans of traveling the world. I kept telling him I was going to get around to that too. So finally, one night he took the lighter out into the street and had a vendor add the postscript.

-As a reminder to seize the day whenever you lit a girl's cigarette?

-Something like that.

-Well, your job doesn't sound so bad to me.

-No, he admitted. It's not bad. It's just . . .

Tinker looked out on Broadway, gathering his thoughts.

-I remember Mark Twain writing about an old man who piloted a barge-the kind that ferried people from a landing on one side of the river to a landing on the other.

-In Life on the Mississippi?

-I don't know. Maybe. Anyway-over thirty years, Twain figured this man had shuttled back and forth so often that he'd traveled the length of the river twenty times over, without leaving his county.

Tinker smiled and shook his head.

-That's what I feel like sometimes. Like half my clients are on their way to Alaska while the other half are on their way to the Everglades-and I'm the one going from riverbank to riverbank.

-Refill? the waitress asked, coffeepot in hand.

Tinker looked to me.

The girls at Quiggin & Hale had forty-five minutes for lunch and I was in the habit of being in front of my typewriter with a few minutes to spare. If I left right then, I could probably make it. I could thank Tinker for the lunch, jog up Nassau, and catch the elevator to the sixteenth floor. But what would the latitude be for a girl who was usually prompt? Five minutes? Ten? Fifteen if she broke a heel?

-Sure, I said.

The waitress filled our cups and we both leaned back, our knees knocking due to the narrowness of the booth. Tinker poured cream in his coffee and stirred it round and round and round. For a moment, we were both quiet.

-It's churches, I said.

He looked a little confused.

-What is?

-That's where I go when I want to be alone.

He sat upright again.

-Churches?

I pointed out the window toward Trinity. For over half a century, its steeple had been the highest point in Manhattan and a welcome sight to sailors. Now, you had to be in a diner across the street just to see it.

-Really! Tinker said.

-Does that surprise you?

-No. It's just that you don't strike me as the religious sort.

-I'm not. But I don't go during the services. I go in the off-hours.

-To Trinity?

-To all sorts. But I prefer the big old ones like Saint Patrick's and Saint Michael's.

-I think I've been in Saint Barth's for a wedding. But that's about it. I must have walked by Trinity a thousand times without stepping inside.

-That's what's amazing. At two in the afternoon there's nobody in any of them. There they sit with all that stone and mahogany and stained glass-and they're empty. I mean, they must have been crowded at one point, right?-for someone to have gone to all that trouble. There must have been lines outside the confessionals and weddings with girls dropping flower petals in the aisle.

-From baptisms to eulogies. . . .

-Exactly. But over time the congregation has been winnowed away. The newcomers set up their own churches and the big old ones just get left alone-like the elderly-with memories of their heyday. I find it very peaceful to be in their company.

Tinker was quiet for a moment. He looked up at Trinity where a pair of seagulls circled the steeple for old time's sake.

-That's really great, he said.

I toasted him with my coffee cup.

-It's something few people know about me.

He looked me in the eye.

-Tell me something that no one knows about you.

I laughed.

But he was serious.

-That no one knows? I said.

-Just one thing. I promise, I'll never tell a soul.

He crossed his heart to prove it.

-All right, I said, setting my coffee cup down. I keep perfect time.

-What do you mean?

I shrugged.

-I can count sixty seconds in sixty seconds. Minute in and minute out.

-I don't believe it.

I gestured with a thumb to the soda pop clock on the wall behind me.

-Just let me know when the second hand gets to twelve.

He looked over my shoulder and watched the clock.

-Okay, he said with a game smile. On your mark . . . Get set . . .

Zowie, Eve had said later that afternoon. Someplace, somewhere, sometime. How'd you get all that?

In taking depositions, one thing you learn is that most people have respect for a direct and well-timed question. It's the one thing they're not prepared for. Sometimes, they show their cooperative intent (and buy some time) by repeating it back to their questioner: How did I get all that? they ask politely. Sometimes, they counter the boldness of the question with a touch of indignation: How'd I get what? Whatever the tactic, the seasoned attorney knows that when someone is stalling in this manner, there is fertile ground for further inquiry. So, the best response to a good question is something put simply without hesitation or inflection.